


Living the Questions

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Anniversary, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, M/M, Therapy, understanding blaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the Klaine Advent prompt Anniversary: Some days are harder than others, but Blaine remembers (married students Klaine; Kurt is in his last year at NYADA, Blaine is in third year at Tisch)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living the Questions

It was raining, again. The light had burned out over his desk, again. And Mrs. Husker upstairs was taking another of her interminable midmorning baths. He could hear the squeak and thump of her shifting buttocks and thighs and the splash and drip of the water in the overfull tub, all of it echoing down through the ceiling. It was making Blaine’s skin itch.

He should have gone with Kurt to yoga. He knew he needed it, knew that Kurt was starting to get worried for him, that the stress of midterms rested just a little too heavy on his shoulders. He should have gone. It was supposed to be spring break, for both of them, but this paper for his Performance Studies class was kicking his ass. He just needed to get it written before he could let himself enjoy the break.

It was different for Kurt. Last week had been NYADA Spring Torment (as it was known in their house, anyway)—always a tough, touchy time, magnified tenfold as Kurt’s part involved a crucial step in his senior year project. Blaine had spent a lot of time backstage at the crummy black box theatre helping—or trying to help—as Kurt and his friends workshopped the newest, more postmodern take on _Pip Pip Hooray,_ now renamed _Pip._ He’d felt underfoot, mostly, his mind elsewhere, on his own midterms, on Sondheim and Moliere, and this damn Anthro/Soc/whatever you call it Everyday Performance class. Still, he knew Kurt needed him there, _wanted_ him there, and that he DID appreciate the honey and lemon tea, and the foot massages. “Best husband ever,” he’d crooned at Blaine, kissing the top of his head as Blaine helped him slip his shoes back on to take the stage again.

But now Kurt was done worrying about school until he got his critiques next week, nothing to do this week but shop and eat and run errands for his friend Isabelle at _Vogue._ While Blaine was stuck here. He sighed, staring out at the rain-gray sky, and wished he could have some of those hours he’d spent with Kurt back. He was sure he’d had a better idea for his argument about “the studied affect”—was he still calling it that? Oh, God—on the subway to NYADA on Friday. But it was gone now. Resentment crawled up his spine at the thought of Kurt, free to spend an hour in the warm air of Holi’s Yoga Studio while he sat here, his stomach—and his mood—turning sour.

Man, that was a warning sign if he ever felt one. He pushed away from the desk, pushed those thoughts away. He SAW the way Kurt looked at him as he headed for the door. He knew that look now, knew it meant Kurt was feeling helpless—and that offering yoga as stress relief had been his way to help. Why was he always so slow to pick up on Kurt’s worry? “Augh!” He wasn’t getting anywhere with this. By now he would have been blissfully lying in Shavasana, his worries—well, not gone, but put in their place.

Well, he still could do that. What was it Dr. Patel always said? “When things get gray, you know, when the world is all muddy and drear, start by making just one change. I don’t mean you need to change the whole world, or paint your house. Just—stand up. Go to another room. Change your shirt—or your bowtie. That would work as well.” He could hear her voice so clear, the gentle chuckle at the end.

He stood, stretched, and padded through to the bedroom. He hit the switch, and the room filled with gentle light. He crossed then to kneel by his chest of drawers to pull his journal out of the bottom drawer, where it lay under his t-shirts.

He paged through. There weren’t a lot of entries in this, his newest journal. It only went back to this summer. He’d written in it a lot that week at the beach, the fruits of long walks and talks with Kurt and Sam, and with Burt--and one particularly memorable day in the hotel bar with mom and Carole. But then he’d gotten busy and so it went quiet. Never a good idea, Blaine, old boy, he thought. Damn, he hadn’t written in it since early February, after that phone call with Dad. He’d been neglecting this, too.

He flipped to the front and found the little card that he had taped to the inside front cover, the same card that had been inside each of the journals he’d kept since that first one, the one Dr. Patel had encouraged him to start keeping that awful spring when he’d crashed and burned at NYADA—and out of Kurt’s life. Before he’d left for New York, he’d asked her to write something to remember her by, and in her distinctive British schoolgirl script, it read: “Be patient toward all that is unresolved in your heart, dear Blaine. (That means you don’t have to be perfect. Not today. Not ever. Just be you. ) And remember to LIVE THE QUESTIONS.”

It made him smile, as always, taking him back to the peaceful office in Westerville. He reopened the journal and pushed back to lean against the wall next to the door. He thought he’d write a bit about not letting his anxiety for the present color his memories of last week with resentment. Kurt had been magnetic, as always, on stage, the other actors mere shadows in Blaine’s memory. When he sang his solo at the end, it was like that day in the Dalton common room all over again, Kurt in his Victorian funereal garb, singing Blackbird. He closed his eyes, remembering the way the light hit Kurt’s young face, the grief mingled with the pure joy of song.

And then he was laughing, for here it was: his way into his essay. Kurt performing grief, Dr. Patel performing peace. His pen flew across the page, as he wrote about that day so long ago, and mused about rituals, adding notes in the margins where he would have to add scholarly sources to buttress his arguments.

He turned the page then, and wrote about yoga, and about how his husband tried to care for him and about not beating himself up too much about saying no to him. He was grateful now that he stayed behind, knowing that Kurt had, not for the first time—more like for the thousandth time—been his inspiration.

He carried the journal out to the living room, and picked up his phone from the charger to send Kurt a text about the breakthrough. As he did, his phone chimed a reminder to him: **Pavarotti lives! It’s March 16, Blaine!**

He felt like Ebeneezer Scrooge waking up to find that Christmas hadn’t passed after all. He threw on his coat and ran for the door, then came back to check the wattage of the burnt-out light bulb by his desk. As he ran down the stairs, and to the CVS on the next block, he texted Kurt: _“I’m over the hump. Sad to miss yoga but glad to have fixed the paper.”_ The reply came quickly: **“Sad you missed too. Going to lunch with Elliott, then stopping by office.”**

It was a little clipped. Kurt was hurt. Damn. _“Just wanted to let you know that you’re my inspiration.”_

 **“Are you singing cheesy eighties ballads again? Must have been some breakthrough.”** Well, that was better.

_“Don’t have pizza for lunch. I want to do takeout and makeout tonight.”_

**“OMG. You’re getting worse by the second. But, just so you know, looking forward to it.”**

_“Love you too.”_

He picked up the lightbulbs and then found himself wandering the gift aisles. After all, what was the proper way to mark the eighth anniversary of your first kiss? He thought about chocolates, flowers—he could run over to Posies—when he saw the little display of stuffed animals. And there in the pile of Webkinz was a little yellow canary.

With Pavarotti II and a bottle of Chianti tucked under his arm, he trudged back up the steps and got to work. It was still raining, and Mrs. Husker had switched to vacuuming every square inch of carpeting in her apartment, banging into furniture right over his head, but his desk lamp shed soft yellow light over his notes and the journal, the little bird was safely stowed in the wicker birdcage Tina had given them for Christmas this year (safely away from their Siamese Oscar’s inquisitive paws), and his husband would be home soon to their little flat in Brooklyn. He could do this. Hell, he was doing this. His everyday performance of happiness, even when the dark times came.


End file.
